


A Temporary Surrender: Hello, Again

by Minxie



Series: A Temporary Surrender [1]
Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: KINKS: D/s, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-20
Updated: 2011-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-14 22:14:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/154047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minxie/pseuds/Minxie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Excerpt:</b> <i>"I'm the one you hit your knees for. I'm the one you beg for and the one you cry for. I'm the one you trust with those things, with the side of you no one else even believes exists."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Temporary Surrender: Hello, Again

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This is a work of fiction using names and faces associated with actual trufax people. I do not know these people in any way, shape, or form outside of what they show the public. Which, IMO, is a very sucky thing. Just sayin'.  
>  **AN:** Written in response to [this](http://community.livejournal.com/glam_kink/1444.html?thread=1238948#t1238948) glam_kink prompt. And, yes, I took the prompt and put my spin on it. *facepalm* So, yeah, hope it's what the OP was looking for. Huge love to my prereaders: vl_redreign and sunshinyday5762.

When the band goes stateside and Adam has a few days with no concerts and some actual time to himself, when there is real fucking time between one breath and the next, he realizes just how exhausted he is. Realizes that despite how much he's enjoying this wild ride, he needs a break, needs to step back and regroup.

It's the fourth day in Paris that he slips out of the bed, leaves Sauli in a tangled mess of sheets and pillows, still slick with lube and sweat and come, and retreats to the balcony with his phone in hand. Sauli is a great distraction but Adam needs something more.

Adam dials a number from memory, one that hasn't changed in the years since his cruise ship shenanigans, and waits. He counts off the rings – _one, two, three_ – and wonders if he's fucked up the time zone thing again, if he's managed to call at some ridiculous hour in the day or night. Then, when a familiar voice – deep and soothing on a level Adam would be hard pressed to explain – answers with a lazy drawl, Adam sighs, the taut set of his shoulders bleeding into a slouch that his mother fought against for years.

"Damien."

There's a sharp intake of breath and then, with only the slightest change in tone, "Adam."

By the time they hang up, a plan is in place and Adam has an actual date – December 18th – to shoot for. It's a handful of days that include two concerts and two Jingle Balls mini-sets, and then a full two weeks, fourteen days of blessed relief from the constant demands that are his life.

Adam starts counting down the days before the call fully disconnects.

* * *

  
It's close to noon when Adam reaches his destination: a wood frame house on the beach.

Simple. Rustic. Perfect.

Adam kills the engine in the driveway and sits back, taking it all in, measuring the changes that have happened in a year. A few more plants edge the walkway, and the chairs on the porch are deep blue instead of green. Little things, things that don't change the feel of the place but things that acknowledge the fact that this place, that this sanctuary goes on without him, lives and breathes and exists during the days and weeks that he isn't here.

He used to resent that. Resent that this place, this stretch of sand and salt air didn't need him as much as he needed his two weeks here.

He was wrong, his resentment ill-placed.

It wasn't the place, or even the company that Adam resented. It was _needing_ the two weeks, the down time, that caused the resentment. A private affront on what was a personal expectation.

That, the moment of serious self-discovery, was the only time he'd spent more than two weeks here. It was the only time he'd needed to.

Movement catches in the corner of Adam's vision and he cants his head, squints into the glare of the sun reflecting on the water. He can't stop the smile, the easy turn of lips, when he sees Damien, all broad shoulders and trim waist, leaning against the deck rail. He's everything that Adam never goes for in a guy: big and beefy and _there_.

He's dominating. Just by walking into a room, Damien commands attention and respect and obedience.

It's something Adam should clash with, should fight against. It's something that he will fight against. The rules, the expectations, the submission. The first few days are always the hardest. Damien will not give over. He'll push and demand and _fight_ until Adam surrenders. Knowing that, knowing that unless he safes out, Damien will not back down always gives Adam pause, makes him stop and take a few deep breathes.

Because knowing what you need and accepting it are two totally different things.

Shaking his head, Adam shoots off a quick text to his mom – _I'm here, see you in a couple of weeks._ – and then he opens the car door and, taking a deep breath of sea air, slides from behind the wheel. He slips his backpack strap over one shoulder, bumps the car door closed with his hip, and, grinning, makes his way over the cobblestone walk and up onto the deck, stopping at Damien's side. "Hey."

Damien nods and returns the smile. "Took you long enough, rockstar."

Adam chuckles softly. Rockstar. Damien's been calling him that for years. "You know how it is."

"Yeah, I do." Damien pushes off the rail. He wraps a hand tight against the back of Adam's neck and squeezes once, setting the roles into play with that one action. "Still ginger?"

Ginger. The safeword Adam picked long ago. "Yeah, ginger."

"Good. Anything else change?"

Adam pauses and thinks. Runs the boundaries they've always agreed to through his mind. Slowly he shakes his head. "Cutting, golden showers, scat, breath play, still my only hard limits."

Damien squeezes Adam's neck again, and then, words easy and gentle, says, "Come on, boy, time to get you settled."

Adam stiffens, his muscles going rigid and his spine snapping into place.

"Easy, Adam." The fingers resting on Adam's neck tighten and hold. "Just relax."

He tries. Fuck, how he tries. But he's not ready for _boy_. Not yet. "Damien."

"You remember the basics?"

Adam nods. He's been thinking about the basic rules, the things that are not ever up for discussion, since Paris. No skipping meals, no drinking or drugging, privilege is earned with honesty and effort, and respect is not optional. "Yes."

"And the high roller?"

Lips quirking, because, really, the first rule is not something he'll ever forget, Adam says, "Your will."

"Exactly. My will." Damien uses his hold to propel Adam towards to the door. "Let's go, _boy_."

Sighing, Adam closes his eyes and lets Damien lead him over the threshold, the load he's been carrying, the heavy crush against his chest, lessening minutely with the complete lack of compromise in Damien's voice.

* * *

  
Leaving his phone in the bowl by the door is easy. Dropping his bag in the hall closet brings little more than a frown. But stripping down under Damien's watchful gaze draws a blush across Adam's neck and face and the near uncontrollable urge to drop a hand to the front of his crotch. Because this isn't the mutual losing of clothes that leads to hot sex.

Adam knows exactly what it is. It's an inspection.

He knows that Damien is cataloging the bruises decorating Adam's thighs and calves, the ones that come with six months on tour. That he's marking each of the dips and valleys that prove Adam hasn't been eating the way he should be and the ginger hair that tells how Adam has slacked off on simple things like shaving and, because this is Damien, the tattoo etched along the jut of his hipbone that the fans don't even know about, the inked words that keep him grounded during the crippling madness of go, go, go.

Damien will miss none of it.

And that makes Adam itch to cover his dick again, to hide away from Damien's observing eye. He fights the urge by curling his fingers in tight, pressing crescents shapes into his palms. Not reacting, not covering himself up is proving harder than he remembers it being.

"Been a rough few months, hasn't it?"

Adam jerks his head up, his focus shifting from the floor to Damien's lips and then, after a steeling breath, Damien's eyes. What he finds staring back at him, the look of concern and compassion, the need to protect and to replenish, to _cherish_ clogs Adam's throat with emotion and floods his eyes with unexpected tears.

"Oh, pretty boy," Damien murmurs, pulling Adam into a tight hug. "Let's get you cleaned up."

He blinks against the tears and, swallowing around the hot ball of appreciation in his throat, Adam whispers, "Yeah, okay." And then, when Damien's lips buss over his temple, amends it to a simple, "Yes."

* * *

  
Adam stands with his feet shoulder-width apart and his forearms braced on the cool tiles. Hot water, almost too hot to be comfortable, sluices over his shoulders and neck, trailing down the knobs of his spine and the waning definition of his chest. He relishes the feel of the water and the heat of Damien's presence at his back.

A snick, the sound of a bottle opening echoes off the ceramic, and the scent of vanilla fills the large walk-in shower. Adam tenses, he holds himself still, waiting for, anticipating Damien's touch.

"Don't fight me, Adam." Damien's hands press into the muscles of Adam's back, one dragging a soap-filled cloth, the other smoothing and touching and tracing in the sudsy wake. "Let me take care of you."

A choked off noise gurgles in the back of Adam's throat, an overwhelming mash-up of warring responses like _yes_ and _please_ and _but, really, no_. Even as he relaxes into Damien's touch, Adam shakes his head, denies that this is where he wants to be. He fights the desire, the urge, the _need_ , and instead holds tight to the person the rest of the world sees. Holds tight to who he wants to be, who he _is_.

"You're gonna let me," Damien whispers, hands digging hard over Adam's ribs. "You're gonna let me take care of you because I'm the one you hit your knees for. I'm the one you beg for and the one you cry for. I'm the one you trust with those things, with the side of you no one else even believes exists."

Another stuttered moan works its way up and through and out of Adam.

"You are going to let me because you are mine, boy." Damien tugs Adam back away from the wall. Directing and leading and pulling until Adam is tight against him, back flush against Damien's chest. "Mine to hold, to touch, to fuck." Teeth dragging over the cords in Adam's neck, Damien whispers, "Mine to cuff and to bind and to mark."

"Damien." Adam drops his head onto Damien's shoulder and whimpers – fucking _whimpers_ – for more. More touches, more words, just more.

"You gave me that. Gave me what you don't give to anyone else." Damien presses a kiss to the shell of Adam's ear. "And because you _gave it to me_ , you will let me take care of you. Now let go, boy."

With a shudder rippling through him, Adam releases a breathy sigh of relief and exhaustion. "Oh."

"That's it," Damien murmurs.

Slowly, methodically, Damien starts washing Adam's chest and abdomen. His hands dip lower, one cupping Adam's balls as the other drags the washcloth over Adam's dick and the across his thighs. Then Damien scratches through the thatch of hair curling at the base of Adam's dick. "Here or on the bed?"

Adam's dick jerks, full and wet at the tip. Just the idea, the memories of Damien's careful strokes with a blade making him ache with need. He swallows once. "Bed."

Damien chuckles low and seductive. "Hedonist."

* * *

  
He feels vulnerable. He _is_ vulnerable. Legs spread wide, fingers holding onto the edge of the mattress while Damien spreads the warm froth of shaving soap over his groin. This is the most vulnerable Adam's let himself be in over a year.

The straight-edged razor is glinting in the light and the oil, for after, is casting a rainbow effect over the walls. He closes his eyes against the distraction, against the worry and focuses on breathing. In and out, slow and steady.

"Deep breath, pretty boy."

Adam clenches with the first touch of metal, then sighs as the first drag exposes a swath of sensitive skin. He feels the difference immediately. He feels _everything_ immediately. The air – cool and sharp – and Damien's fingers – rough and so warm they're hot – and the static draw of the razor as Damien swipes another line through hair and cream.

He gets lost in the repetitive movements, lost in the feel of Damien's confidence, in the surety radiating from each measured pull of the blade. Adam pushes his head back into the pillows, gasping, when a hot rag passes over his groin, wiping and blotting the remaining soap away.

Then, when Damien uses one hand to hold Adam's ass wide and the other to spread lather along the cleft and over his hole, Adam blushes, heat working over his chest and neck, up and along his jaw line. His fingers tighten, his body goes taut with the scrape of the razor close to and then over the wrinkled skin surrounding his anus.

When the razor is replaced with first the rough friction of a wet washcloth and then with Damien's oil-slicked fingers, dancing over every inch of Adam's bare skin, Adam gives in and arches, back bowing deep and impressive. "Oh, fuck."

Damien rubs his thumb over Adam's hole. "Not yet."

"Damien," Adam groans.

"No," Damien murmurs, then repeats, "Not yet."

Adam rolls his hips, grinds down on Damien's thumb, and growls, "Damien."

"Right here." Damien strokes Adam's dick, one long pull base to tip and back again. "And you're still not coming yet."

Adam groans in frustration. He knows what Damien is doing, has done the very thing himself. Drawing it out, holding back completion. Damien's forcing Adam to give over, to acknowledge that here and now, that in this everything is at Damien's will.

Including his release.

"This," Damien grasps Adam's cock in one hand, swipes his thumb through the precome wetting Adam's cockhead, "this belongs to me as much as you do. When and where and how? All my choice, boy."

"I need…" the words fade away into another groan as Damien works an oiled finger into Adam's ass.

"Tell me." Damien's voice is low, the vibrations echoing against the soft flesh of Adam's thigh. "What do you need?"

He needs to come. He needs to lose himself. Needs to regroup and rest. Needs to find himself. He needs… "So fucking much."

"I know." Damien brushes his lips over Adam's thigh, over his hip. "And I'll get you there. Just give over, let me carry you, Adam."

"I can't." He never can. Not easily.

"You will." The words are full of promise.

A single tear – six months, twelve months of exhaustion, of sweat and blood and hope – trickles from Adam's eye and rolls back, over his temple, and into his hairline.

"Let go. Let go for me." Damien pushes a second finger into Adam's ass, adding slick and heat and fullness to his words. "Let go for _you_."

A convoluted mix of sounds – a sob and a growl and a curse all twisted up together in one long drawn pitiful noise – tumbles out, tangible proof of Adam's inner battle, of the fight between need versus want versus that damnable personal expectation.

He trembles with the effort of the surrender.

"That's it," Damien praises – _coaxes_ – quietly, one hand working Adam's cock and the other working his ass open.

Another tear slides from Adam's eyes as he whispers, "Please."

"Oh, yes, pretty, there you are." Damien tightens his grip on Adam's cock, sets a steady pace of stroking with his hand, and then, nuzzling the freshly shaved ball sac, murmurs, "At your leisure, boy."

Adam's reaction is immediate. He cries out as the orgasm rips through him, back arching and feet digging into the mattress. He pants through the aftershocks, through the waves of relief and pleasure and, because he knows Damien, knows that permission was given because he'd taken that first step, pride.

Damien pulls his fingers free of Adam's body, moves from his place between Adam's legs to beside him, wrapping Adam in his arms and then, when the trembling increases, his legs. Then, when Damien pulls Adam in close, murmuring things like _well done_ and _I've got you_ and _let it out, my pretty_ , Adam breaks completely. His breathing hitches and the tears come in a steady stream, purging and cleansing and, in their way, refreshing.

Damien pulls a lightweight blanket over them and then, his hands roving over Adam's back and head, up and down his arms, whispers, "Rest, Adam."

Adam nods once and, burrowing in closer to Damien, gives in to the desire to sleep, cocooned and safe and lost to, floating through a moment of temporary surrender.

* * *


End file.
